Without You
by broadwaybabe477
Summary: <html><head></head>Fiona Nicks spills her coffee on Spencer Reid, and their lives are never the same. This story will be from dual POVs, Spencer's and Fiona's. Begins at the start of season two and all case-related events are canon to the series. Spencer Reid/OFC</html>
1. Chapter 1

It all started with coffee.

This, in itself, is peculiar because I don't even drink coffee. I only drink tea; decaffeinated tea. However, once in a while I dabble in insomnia, or find something to occupy my mind until the sun rays filter through my charmingly dusty bedroom window. It is on these occasions that I resort to drinking coffee.

On the the particular morning in question I was awoken by the sound of paws, belonging to none other than my favorite feline friend Thomas Grey, as he treaded over the piles of legal papers surrounding my head on my worn kitchen table. Just as I resolved to ignore him, my alarm sounded as my ears were filled with Christine McVie's voice telling me not to stop thinking about tomorrow, far too cheery and energetic for my current disposition.

I groaned.

Thomas Grey meowed.

It was my cue to lift my head, and start the day.

I suppose I could try to describe what I did before I arrived at the aforementioned watering hole for young professionals, more commonly known as a Starbucks, but that would be quite dull. I recall some teeth brushing, some hair brushing, a brief interlude with deodorant…..

Ultimately I ended up at the Starbucks closest to the law office where I work and the line was about as ridiculous as I had expected. Momentarily, I considered just going to work and forgetting the caffeine, but my heavy eyelids informed me that this was not a possibility. The line was actually so long that people were standing outdoors. Luckily, spring in DC is mild and the weather was pleasant. Thus, I waited.

I know what this looks like. It looks like I'm attempting to transform a story that seemingly revolves around a single cup of coffee into the Canterbury Tales. This is false for two reasons:

First, contrary to popular belief, I am not Geoffrey Chaucer.

Moreover, this story is not about coffee.

It is about how seemingly mundane occurrences have the potential to alter the course of ones life just as this innocuous morning changed mine. Now that the purpose of my coffee diatribe is understood, let us continue...

When I finally got my coffee, some concoction that has three foreign titles which probably all represent some derivative of sugar, I was already ten minutes late for work. I told the flamboyant barista to keep the change as I raced for the door, scalding cup in hand. Naturally, my astounding coordination caused a collision between me, my coffee, and someone whom I assumed, as I fell to the floor, must be the Grim Reaper himself. However, this assumption quickly evaporated when I looked up.

Standing above me, looking completely befuddled, was this guy. He looked to be about my age, mid twenties, or maybe slightly younger. It was hard to tell because he had this boyish look about him. It was not so much his features as his expression which seemed to retain a childlike clarity. His full lips were parted slightly in confusion but his eyes were intent and, much to my chagrin, I felt the blood rush to my cheeks.

"Um… are you alright?"

He asked this almost wearily, which made me realize that I was still laying on the ground. I smiled weakly and slowly rose to my feet.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

I realized then that he was tall. Even standing I had to look up at him. Still, though he was tall he was not big. Instead he was lanky, his corduroy pants seemed to hang on him. Pants that now had a large wet spot that was undoubtedly from my spilt coffee.

"I'm sorry about your pants."

His eyes darted down to the stain on his chords and a some of his long, slightly unkempt hair was released from his place behind his ears and fell charmingly in front of his face.

"Oh...um it's okay."

Charmingly?

Yes, I found his hair charming. I had the same opinion about his eyes and his lips and the rest of him for that matter. He was very attractive in an unconventional way. Some girls would not look twice at him because he was so gangly and his hair was a little long and his tie was crooked. Still, he had the sort of face that an artist would want to paint and I found this combination alluring. This was probably why I had seemingly lost my already tentative grasp on social conventions, explaining why I said the following:

"Well, at least the stain is on your knee, so people won't think that you peed or anything."

I'm pretty sure the embarrassment I felt from making that comment almost sent me into cardiac arrest. He must have been as shocked by my behavior as I was because he sort of sputtered before speaking.

"I uh wasn't really worried about that…?"

He looked so painfully awkward that I managed to find the some of the social skills that I seemed to have forgotten when I left my apartment and apologized profusely.

"Yeah I….I'm sorry I have no idea why I said that; rough morning I guess…"

"It's okay. I'm not that functional before I have coffee either"

"I don't have much of an excuse though, I mean I don't even drink coffee."

"You don't?" His lips at quirked into a shy, half-smile that encited my recently developed verbal diarrhea.

"Not really. I have the caffeine tolerance of an infant chipmunk."

I would have regretted sticking my proverbial foot in my mouth, but instead was surprisingly delighted when, instead of running for the door, my corduroy wearing companion actually smiled. He had a smile that brightened his entire complexion and the entire room around him and I was even enchanted enough to forget my humiliation as my face erupted into a grin.

"I'm Fiona", I provided as I held out my hand for him to shake.

He hesitated at first, but then shook my hand courteously. I managed to notice that he had long, elegant fingers.

"Dr. Spencer Reid."

"PHD?"

"Hm?" He pronounced as his eyes darted to mine with sincere curiosity.

"Well you're not a medical doctor right?"

His expression still appeared expectant so I offered an explanation.

"You're not wearing scrubs, so you're not a resident or intern and even if you graduated med school really early, you wouldn't have enough experience or clout to be an attending. I suppose you could be a fellow, but I don't think that's the case."

"Why not?"

"Because as a doctor you would never wear those shoes," I gestured to his converse sneakers, "They don't have enough traction." He peered down at his worn sneakers. "You've made these inferences just from my clothes?"

"No, not exactly. When I fell down you showed the normal amount of concern but didn't rush to help me up, and didn't check to see if I sustained any injuries. If you were a MD, you would have checked….even if I did spill my coffee on you," I added.

His pants still looked pretty wet so I figured it would be polite to get some napkins while I continued to ramble incessantly. Still, he seemed interested in what I had to say, his eyes regarding me with interest and speculation.

"I thought you were a professor at first but then I noticed the gun you have holstered and realized that you probably work for law enforcement in some capacity, but you are far too academic to be a cop and are not the type for the secret service," I handed him the napkins, "My guess is that you work for the FBI."

I could not help the swell of pride that filled my chest when he seemed slightly awed.

"That was pretty spot on. Are you a profiler?"

"A profiler?", I wrinkled my nose in confusion, "No way Mr. FBI, I'm just observant. Are you?"

"Observant?"

"No," I laughed slightly " Are you a 'profiler' ?"  
>"Yes, I uh work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI"<p>

"The BAU?"

"You're familiar with it?"

"Vaguely", I smiled at the excitement that leaked into his voice.

"What are you?"

"I already told you", I teased, "I'm observant."

I was rewarded with another one of his irresistible smiles and his cheeks flushed slightly.

"No, I mean uh...what do you do for work?"

"I'm a lawyer."

His smile stayed intact, "I deduced as much."

"Of course you did."

The conversation stopped for a moment and I glanced around the coffee shop, reacquainting myself with my surroundings. At risk of sounding cliche, it was as if Dr. Reid and I were existing in our own universe of awkward social graces, clever banter, and spilled coffee. It was the most interesting and enjoyable interaction I had experienced in a while, maybe ever.

Incidentally, I found his shy innocence coupled with his obvious intelligence utterly adorable. It also didn't hurt that he was really very good looking.

Unfortunately, I did really have to get to work.

"Well, it was nice meeting you Dr. Reid"

"You can call me Spencer."

I managed to muster up my meager powers of flirtation and attempted to gaze up at him from underneath my lashes.

"It was nice to meet you, Spencer," I grinned, "Sorry again about your pants."

"It was nice meeting you too, Fiona."

I rocked slightly on my heels for a moment, a nervous habit then gave him a nod and turned to leave. Even though I had only known him for five minutes, I was oddly disappointed that I would not see him again.

"Wait!"

Just as I reached the door his voice stopped me.

"Yes?" I responded, maybe a little too eagerly.

"Could I uh- could I call you?" He asked quickly, and slightly nervously.

"I'm sure you could," I said with a smirk, my voice full of mirth. " Do you want to?"

He blushed, "Yeah, I want to."

I walked toward him once more, retrieving the pen that was tucked behind my ear. I then boldly took his hand, trying to ignore the electricity I felt at the contact and swiftly wrote my name and number on his forearm. I was glad to see that this action caught him off guard.

"Talk to you later Spencer."

I left him there standing in the coffee shop, him wearing an bemused expression and I a bright smile.

I'm so glad that I spilled my coffee. 


	2. Chapter 2

SPENCER POV

I disregard the concept of a beginning and an end.

I've read quite a bit lately about the theory circulating of a multiverse which implies that time is not quantifiable because all that has and will happen, every possibility and every outcome, is happening right now.

I do not value astrology and I blatantly reject religion.

However, this is physics and physics I can almost believe.

Still, if I were to begin somewhere, it would be the day I was late to work.

Notice that I labeled it "the day" in the singular tense. This is the proper usage because I am never late to work.

Correction: I am seldom late to work.

(There was that one day).

I do not have a severe ethical grievance against tardiness. I simply did not see the point of being late, until that day.

I work as a Supervisory Special Agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the Federal Bureau of Investigation which is admittedly a mouthful and typically condensed to a list of acronyms. (SSA, BAU, FBI….)

Basically, my job is to think like a serial killer so that I can psychologically profile one. I have some difficulty reconciling the fact that I get paid to empathise with murderers until I'm reminded that I am paid to catch them, and the empathy is only a tool accomplish a task.

What I do is not intertwined with who I am.

At least, that is what I try to tell myself.

But, I digress...

When I arrived to work late it was a Tuesday morning at 10:05 A.M. While in the elevator, I groaned inwardly at the ribbing I was going to receive when I entered the bullpen, five minutes behind schedule.

Incidentally, the bullpen is the area of cubicles where my team of fellow SSA's congregate. I've always assumed that naming it the "bullpen" is to maintain the "team" metaphor-

"Hey Genius"

I do not believe that intelligence is quantifiable, but I do have an eidetic memory and can read 20,000 words per minute.

"Morning Morgan."

I often wonder if my boss, Aaron Hotchner, was preoccupied with antitheses while assembling his team because it would be impossible to find two men more superficially opposed to each other than myself and Derek Morgan.

First of all, he is much bigger than I am, not taller, but bigger. If he wasn't such a decent guy, he could easily kick the shit out of me. (Although I realize that the ability to physically overpower someone who is often fondly referred to as a "string bean", does not exactly demonstrate immense strength).

Moreover, Morgan is far more gregarious than I dream to be in all social situations, especially those involving women.

"You're late Reid," he accused sardonically, "And you forgot your coffee."

At one time, I was hopeless when it came to "reading" people. Luckily, becoming a profiler has helped immensely in this venture. My powers of deduction saw the glint in Morgan's eye and knew immediately that my previous suspicions about a possible "ribbing" were correct.

"I'm cutting back," I quipped.

"Yeah right kid," Morgan guffawed, "You would inject the caffeine if it were possible."

I attempted to distract him with a superfluous statistic.

"Actually Morgan, Caffeine and sodium benzoate injections have been used in conjunction with supportive measures to treat respiratory depression associated with the overdosage of central nervous system depressant drugs."

"Yeah I'm sure that's true. However, that doesn't change the fact that you're acting mad shady Pretty Boy."

He wasn't buying it.

"Being late for work once makes me 'mad shady' ?"

"No," he chuckled, "But trying to distract me with stats and getting overly defensive does."

"I'm not getting overly defensive," I argued in deliberate monotone as I tried once more to change the subject, " I think Hotch wanted us in the conference room to present the case."

"Alright," Morgan replied, "Let's go."

I turned to walk to the conference room visibly relieved that I'd escaped from the interrogation.

"Just one question Pretty Boy?"

I sighed, and turned to face Morgan reluctantly.

"What?"

He smiled ruefully.

"Who's number is that written on your arm?"

With that comment, he set off for the conference room while I remained dumbstruck in in the bullpen, my cheeks red as a tomato. _Damn profilers_.

I peered down at my forearm which bore ten, slightly smudged digits that were the reason for my tardiness.

I had gone to Starbucks that morning to grab a coffee before work. I usually prefer smaller, unknown coffee shops but I was in a bit of a rush. Naturally, the place had been ridiculously crowded and I had dreaded the prospect of going inside. Crowds typically do not mix well with my general lack of coordination. I expected that I would probably trip over myself and the other customers a bit in the process of getting my caffeine fix.

However, what I did not expect, is that someone would run into me.

Initially, I merely felt the impact of someone running straight into me and then heard their body fall rather ungracefully to the floor as their cup evidently went flying from its tray and the hot coffee inside of it began to seep through the corduroy fabric covering my knees.

Shocked and perhaps even slightly annoyed, I remained standing, trying decipher the protocol of the situation. Apologizing seemed unnecessary because the collision was not my fault. I was considering just walking away in order to avoid the situation entirely but all of my previous deliberation proved futile when I glanced down at the person with whom I had collided.

Of all the distinct yet jumbled images that color my mind, the most prominent from this encounter is of wide, green eyes. Typically, my eidetic memory allows me to encode images with indiscriminate specificity but for some reason these eyes, olive green with golden flecks, are particularly prominent.

I recall the other pieces as well; slightly unruly, brunette hair that framed her face which still held the vestiges of childhood, although I suspected that she was somewhere in her twenties, and olive skin. A blush covered her cheeks, probably the manifestation of embarrassment, yet I still found it somehow alluring. I was strangely torn between the inclination to ease her discomfort and the desire to make her cheeks flush delightfully.

I could transcribe our conversation verbatim, but at that moment of recall while standing in the bullpen, certain aspects seemed to overpower others. For example, I was particularly preoccupied with the slightly hoarse tone of her voice that rose exponentially in pitch when she became nervous or embarrassed and her seemingly irreverent sense of humor that was disarming in its level of quirk.

It was obvious that she was intelligent. I managed to deduce that she was a lawyer from her attire and the legal papers peeking out from her briefcase. I realized that she was intelligent when she profiled me.

Still, what I found especially interesting was the dichotomy in her demeanor. She was at once outgoing and shy; confident and self deprecating. The profiler within me speculated that her jokes were a way of overcompensating. I was baffled.

To say that I do not have a ton of experience with women would be an understatement. When you are six years younger than your classmates it is relatively hard to break into the dating scene. It is pretty unethical for twenty year olds to fool around with a fourteen year old, even if both are college students.

Contrary to speculation that I'm somewhat asexual, let the record show that I like women. I'm attracted to women. I just never really learned how to deal with them and presently my job does not provide much opportunity to figure it out. Furthermore, my tendency to ramble off statistics is apparently somewhat of a turnoff.

A few women, here and there have shown an interest. However, they typically look at me like I'm a conquest. I find this somewhat emasculating and that feeling makes me less apt to talk to them.

This girl was different. Rather than adopting an air of superiority, her gaze was almost shy. I had seen girls look at other guys that way, but never at me. I immediately felt that I had to get to know her. Thus, I impulsively asked for her number and surprisingly, she acquiesced by writing hers on my arm in ballpoint pen.

_Fiona Nicks_

I'm so glad that she ran into me that day.


End file.
